Howdy, folks. Glen Blamstead here, and I have some literary news. I wrote a book about post-hole augers. The critics called it boring. I took that as a compliment, because that is the whole job of an auger, and if you write a book that does exactly what its subject does, I figure you nailed it. Or drilled it. Whatever the word is.
Now, I should be honest about who the critics were. It was the crew. All four of them. They read it during lunch in the truck, passed it around like a bag of chips, and handed it back with grease on the pages and the general verdict that it was, and I quote, "a lot of words about a hole."
How This Started
It started the way most bad ideas start around here, which is with me standing in a field outside Mora with a cup of coffee going cold, watching an auger do its thing. There is something peaceful about it. The motor hums, the flighting turns, the dirt comes up in a neat little pile, and for a minute everything in the world makes sense. You are making a hole. The hole is where a post goes. The post holds up a building. The building keeps somebody's tractor out of the snow. It is the most honest work there is.
So I thought, somebody ought to write this down. And since nobody else volunteered, which is how I end up with most jobs, I got a notebook from the office and started writing.
The first chapter was about Minnesota dirt. I had a lot to say. We have sand that acts like it is in a hurry to leave. We have clay that grabs the auger like it is meeting a long lost relative. And we have rocks. Oh, we have rocks. Every hole in this part of the state has at least one rock in it, and that rock was put there by a glacier some ten thousand years ago for the sole purpose of being exactly where I want to dig. I believe that rock has been waiting for me personally. I wrote eleven pages on it.
The Plot Thickens, Sort Of
My wife read the second chapter and asked when something was going to happen. I told her something happens on every page. The auger goes down. The auger comes up. Sometimes it hits a rock. She said that is not a plot, that is a Tuesday.
I told her that is what makes it relatable.
The third chapter is my favorite. It is about the time the auger got stuck on a job up toward Pine County, and we spent most of a morning trying to get it back out. We tried reversing it. We tried wiggling it. One of the young guys on the crew suggested we try asking it nicely, and I will admit that by eleven o'clock I did. It did not help, but I felt better. Eventually we got it free, and the hole was perfect, and the customer came out with a plate of bars and said, "Is that all you did today?" And I said, "Ma'am, you have no idea."
I thought that was a pretty dramatic ending. The crew said the bars were the only good part.
A Note On Reviews
Here is the thing about being a writer. You have to have thick skin. And I do, mostly because I have spent forty-some winters in Minnesota and my skin has had no choice.
So when the crew said it was boring, I just nodded and said thank you. When one of them asked if there was going to be a sequel, I said yes, it is about concrete, and it is called Setting Expectations. He groaned so loud a customer at the counter looked over. I considered that a strong reaction, which is all a writer can ask for.
The dog has not read it, but she sat on it for most of an afternoon, which I am choosing to interpret as support.
Where The Book Stands Now
Right now the manuscript lives in the glovebox of my truck, between the registration and a tire gauge that has never once given me the same reading twice. I take it out sometimes on a slow afternoon and add a page. Last week I wrote about frost, and how in this part of Minnesota you have to go down deep enough to get below where the ground freezes, or come spring the whole thing heaves up like it is trying to get a better look around. That chapter actually has some useful information in it, which surprised everybody, including me.
I do not expect to make any bestseller lists. I am not sure there is a bestseller list for auger literature. But I will tell you this. Every time somebody comes into the office in Mora and asks about a new pole barn or a shop or a barndominium, and we get to talking about how it all starts with a good hole in the right spot, I think, you know what, this is a story worth telling. Even if it is boring.
Especially if it is boring. That means it is going right.
So if you ever want to hear a chapter or two, stop by Sherman or holler at us. I will read it to you. The crew will leave the room, but that just means more coffee for us.
